Hazel exhaled and gave a little shrug. “I don’t know. It’s just a fun little spell.”
“Isn’t turning into a pig fun?” asked Hob.
“Of course not,” said Hazel, getting flustered. Hob had a way of asking simple questions to clarify issues that once seemed hopelessly complex. It was useful when it came to the Muirlands. But this was magic they were discussing. It was infinitely more personal. Hazel wasn’t sure she wanted to go down this path.
Hob repeated the question, his expression open and expectant. Hazel swallowed hard and shut her eyes.
“If I can’t transform, I can’t qualify as a Third Rank. I’m running out of time. I’ll be thirteen in October.”
“But you’re going to pass,” said Hob. “Make ‘Third Rank’ or whatever.”
Hazel held up her pig trotter. “You think so?”
He waved it off. “A detail. You already know everything you need to transform. Just like you know everything to ace Montague’s exam. It’s all in there.”
Hazel’s throat grew tight. “Then why can’t I do it?”
“You haven’t given yourself permission.”
She laughed weakly.
To Hazel’s surprise, Hob didn’t bat an eye. “I’m dead serious. Failure scares some people so badly they forget what they’re even trying to do. They’re not trying to succeed at something; they’re just trying not to fail. There’s a big difference. I saw it on séyu and at the Province exams. Bibliosk was easy because you weren’t afraid of the outcome and could just be in the moment. You even had fun with it.” He leaned forward. “It’s time to believe in yourself, Your Highness. Give yourself permission not just to succeed but to be great.”
Hazel retreated a step. Hob was too intense, too serious right now. What he said made her afraid. What nonsense! People didn’t give themselves permission to be great. Greatness came from . . . She frowned. Where did it come from?
Being a Faeregine came with all kinds of expectations. Hazel had been conscious of them all her life, and they were almost always coupled with fear—fear of failure, rejection, or ridicule. She’d never conceived of greatness as something that could be joyful, a mind-set or a state of being. It was simply a daunting standard. Of course, Hazel wanted to be great—who didn’t?—but had she ever given herself permission? She supposed she hadn’t. After all, granting permission required her to believe she had value, something worthy to contribute.
But did she? Violet didn’t think so. Neither did the court brats. Isabel might, but she also regarded herself as Hazel’s champion. A sudden realization flashed in her mind.
No one else’s opinion mattered.
It was so simple, one of those things a consoling parent might say, and yet it contained a fundamental truth. The entire world could believe in Hazel’s greatness but their faith was meaningless if she didn’t believe it herself. Conversely, the world could dismiss her ambitions, but it didn’t matter as long as Hazel believed in their possibility. Greatness not only started with her, it could not begin anywhere else.
Hazel blinked. She did not know how long she’d been standing there, only that tears had traced two paths down her cheeks. Hob had not moved. Neither had Sigga. Above them, she heard the clicks and groans of Old Tom’s clockwork. Hazel gazed at her deformed hand.
She didn’t need to say the incantation aloud; it wasn’t necessary for magic affecting one’s person. She simply spoke the words in her mind and focused her intent.
It was like unraveling a complicated knot by tugging gently at one end. Instantly, her thumb and fingers separated and lengthened to assume their rightful proportions as the talon retracted and disappeared. She wiggled her fingers, not in disbelief but in giddy delight. A few hours ago, the task had been hopeless. Now, it came as naturally as breathing.
Hazel gazed at Hob and Sigga in turn. A grin spread across her face as she now envisioned a pink piglet, smooth and round as a bolster.
Suddenly she was sinking. The table, the chairs, everything was rising around her as though they had grown very large or she had grown very small. Straight ahead, Hazel found herself looking at Hob’s pants and shoes. He was getting up, hurrying around the table. Hopping nimbly over her clothes, Hazel heard a panicky squeal.
Did I make that?
She bolted toward Sigga, whose form no longer appeared as subtle shades and gradations, but flattened shapes of white and black. Red, greens, and blues remained, but the rest of the color spectrum had muddied. Sigga was crouching for a better look at her. Squealing wildly, Hazel darted past her and rounded a bookcase that smelled strongly of oak, dusty parchment, and floor wax. She could smell the domovoi who cleaned in here, even detect traces of those who’d handled nearby books. Her questing snout conveyed so much information it more than compensated for the loss in vision.
“Your Highness,” said Sigga. “Are you all right?”
Of course she was all right—she’d just changed into a pig! With a merry squeal, Hazel raced up and down the stacks, reveling in her speed and nimbleness. Hob was grinning, trotting to try and catch sight of her before she rounded another stack.
What a day.
Hazel wanted to race all over Old College, root in the hummocky woods, snort defiance at the masters, and shake her tail at them. And Rascha! Dàme Rascha would leap out of bed when she learned Hazel could shape change. Hazel couldn’t wait—she had to tell her instantly! All she had to do was change back and . . .
Hazel skidded to a panting halt by her clothes.
She was naked! Pig naked.
“Well done!” said Hob, clapping.
Hazel bolted away. Yes, she was a pig, but she was a naked pig and she didn’t want Hob to see her. She shook with mad laugher at the absurdity of it all. There must be a modification to ensure one’s clothes would change with you. If not, the Mystics examinations were going to be rather awkward.
Racing to the library’s back corner, she darted inside an empty cabinet just as Old Tom began chiming. Turning about, she nosed the sliding door shut as the bells boomed above. Darkness enveloped her as she transformed, gasping and panting, back into Hazel Faeregine. Slight as she was, she was cramped and folded in upon herself. Beads of sweat trickled down her ribs as she waited for the chimes to cease.
“Sigga?” she called at last.
A boot thumped the cabinet door. “Your Highness?”
“Would you be so good as to fetch my clothes?”
Sigga’s response was admirably restrained. “Of course.”
“Wonderful,” said Hazel. “Mr. Smythe?”
His response came from across the room. “Yes, Your Highness?”
“I wonder if we could reschedule the rest of our review. I need some time to . . . collect myself.”
“Of course.”
Thank you!
Another thought occurred to her. If she was going to be stuck inside a cabinet, she might as well ask a question she could never say to his face.
“Eh, one more thing,” she called.
“Yes?”
Hazel screwed her eyes tight. “Would you consider coming to the May Ball?” she blurted. The rest came in a breathless, rapid tumble of words. “You’d have to come as a servant, which I know isn’t quite fair, but I hate these kinds of things and I’d . . . well, I’d feel better knowing I had a friend there.”
A pause. “I’d be honored.”
Hazel gave a piggish squeal. Duly mortified, she curled up and waited for him to leave. Seconds later, a familiar voice seemed to whisper in her ear.
All we need now is the dragon.
CHAPTER 17
THE MAY BALL
The hags have invited me to a sacred feast
where I am to be the guest of honor.
The brutes have accepted me as one of their own
and academia shall reap the rewards . . .
—Recovered journal of Dr. Ezra Planck, cultural anthropologist.
On the afternoon of the May Ball, zephyss after zephyss zo
omed down the servant hallways, their jingling accompanied by opening doors and the tromp of well-polished shoes. The palace was overflowing with distinguished guests who required a small army of maids, pages, and valets. There were clothes to be ironed, pets to be walked, errands to be run, and egos to massage.
As Her Highness’s personal attendant, Hob was spared these summonses. Viktor was not, and had already dashed off to bring tea and toast to a Lord and Lady Vensu visiting from Pearl Bay. Tossing his jacket on the bed, Hob opened his handbook to find a message from the Fellowship:
Relay anything noteworthy from this evening, particularly anything to do with HF or the Lirlanders. Do not worry about Sigga Fenn. Her queries into your background have been intercepted.
For truth, equality, and a free Impyrium.
The tone of the Fellowship’s communications had softened since Mr. Burke’s visit, particularly once Hob passed along specifics regarding Hazel’s magical studies. In that report, he’d told the Fellowship that Her Highness was tasked with qualifying as a Third Rank mystic, and described in detail the spell she’d performed. He also took pains to convey how she’d talked about the magical works of others, how she could sense who had created what. Hazel had referenced the Reaper’s style, but she talked about Mina IV as though she was any other historical figure. While Mr. Burke had told him not to analyze or interpret, Hob could not help but think it was a promising sign.
Hob did not enjoy sharing these discoveries. He had broken his promise to Hazel and exploited her trust to gain the information. His actions were dishonorable, but he reminded himself that he was only trying to protect her from those who might assume the worst. Hazel was no Reaper reborn, and if there was some spirit or evil force at work, he would help her get rid of it. It wasn’t her fault she’d been born a Faeregine any more than it was his fault he’d been born a bastard.
Slipping on his jacket, Hob checked his appearance in the mirror. Oliveiro had dropped off a gold emblem that would give him access to the ballroom. When he tried to pin it to his lapel, however, the backing snapped. Picking up the broken piece, he stifled a curse and sucked his bleeding thumb. He was due any minute in the ballroom.
He ran down to the kitchens where thirty-seven hags were busy cooking and screeching at the fauns who would be serving their creations upstairs. The creatures had every tool imaginable, some for cooking and others for more nefarious purposes. They were sure to have some glue. Plunging through a cloud of steam, Hob almost collided with Gorgo, Bombasta’s mutinous deputy.
The hag stood atop a little stool peering into a cauldron that she stirred with close attention. She did not look up; a flare of her nostrils told her who was at her elbow.
“Evening, Lover Boy.”
“Hey, Gorgo. Got any glue?”
“Left drawer. Grippy stuff. Don’t get it on ya.”
Hob found the tube amid various junk, fingernail clippings, and what looked disturbingly like a shriveled ear. Squeezing out a drop, Hob glued the backing and held it fast.
“Thanks,” he said, giving the cauldron a second glance. “Er, what is that?”
“Keep it down,” she muttered. “It’s a potion.”
Hob was intrigued. “Can you do magic?”
She nodded proudly. “I’m a sorceress. And a true Shrope, unlike that cow Bombasta. This’ll teach her to put on airs.”
Hob stared at the bubbling concoction. Looking furtively over her shoulder, Gorgo added a pinch of powder and cackled. “For extra oomph!”
“Gorgo, please tell me that isn’t poison.”
“Nah,” she said ruefully. “Just a tummy rumbler.”
Hob grimaced. “It makes you go to the bathroom?”
“Like a volcano!” She tittered as she ladled some into a vial. “Take some, eh? Oliveiro gets too high and mighty, put a splash of this in his wine. It’ll learn him.”
“Really, Gorgo, I don’t need . . .”
But the hag insisted, pressing her creation upon Hob until he decided it would be rude and perhaps even dangerous to refuse. Slipping it in his pocket, he hurried out the swinging doors, saluting the hags who jeered his departure. From the kitchens, he wound his way up the staircases until he reached the entry hall.
He arrived to find nobles from across the empire streaming toward the ballroom’s double staircase: tattooed witches from the east; dark royals from Afrique wearing colorful robes; skänder nobles with green coats and silver court swords. A party from Zenuvia passed bearing Queen Lilith’s moon and hemlock standard. Mehrùn and demons, Elder vyes and fauns—even a group of centaurs wearing flowered wreaths. May Day was sacred not only to humans.
If people back home could see this.
Hob nearly laughed. The spectacle before him would have sent Duskers sprinting to their root cellars. But Hob was enchanted. The nonhumans lent the procession a dreamlike magnificence unlike anything he’d ever seen. He watched a group of faerie folk skim past like shimmering dragonflies.
“Move,” barked a guttural voice.
An arm thrust Hob back so forcefully he nearly toppled over. Regaining his balance, he found himself looking into the bright yellow eye of an oni. The demon was no taller than a man but thrice as broad, wearing embroidered robes whose delicacy was incongruous with its ox-sized head. Great tusks protruded from a black beard crackling with electricity. The oni did not give Hob a second glance, but bulled ahead, bellowing for all to make way for Lord Kraavh.
An assortment of imps followed, carrying Lirlander banners and scattering moonflowers before the ambassador. The very air seemed to warp and shimmer about Lord Kraavh. Hob found he could scarcely breathe, much less move until the demon passed.
He watched, spellbound, as the Lirlanders proceeded up the staircase. Hob knew Lord Kraavh wasn’t the only rakshasa in existence, and that rakshasa were not even the most feared among the Lirlanders. It was hard to imagine how mankind had conquered such beings.
Hob gazed about the vast hallway, at its pillars and ancient frescoes. What if the Faeregines hadn’t mastered the demons and driven them beneath the sea? What would the world be like? Would humans still even exist?
He contemplated this as he left the main procession and took a shortcut through a courtyard. Far above the palace spires, a warm and tranquil twilight was settling into evening.
Seeing his pin, a guard waved him through a side entrance. The ballroom was like an enormous jewelry box: rich reds and pale gold with a map of the empire painted upon its vaulted ceiling. Hundreds of tables were arranged around a gleaming dance floor where an orchestra was playing. Faeregines were seated at the head, their tables flanking a dais where the Spider would sit. The empress had yet to arrive.
The triplets were present, however. Hob saw Violet and Isabel conversing with the archmage. Hazel was seated nearby with Dàme Rascha, who was finally up and about. Hob picked his way through the crowds, giving a wide berth to Mr. Dunn, the head butler.
“Mr. Smythe, what a pleasant surprise.”
The voice came from a nearby table. Hob gave an inward groan as he turned to see Dante Hyde. The earl was seated with his family and other members of their house. Hob bowed stiffly.
“Yes, milord?”
Dante addressed his parents. “This is the page I was telling you about. The one I want.”
Lord Willem Hyde was a powerful-looking man with a fringe of graying yellow hair and eyes like pale glass. Like Dante, he wore a cavalry saber.
“So, you’re the muir bastard that attacked my son.”
Hob’s face assumed a stony expression. “Yes, milord.”
Lady Hyde’s contemptuous gaze wandered over Hob. “Why does this animal still possess a head?”
Her husband sipped his wine. “He’s under Faeregine protection, my dear. No matter. He’ll belong to us soon enough.”
Dante leaned forward. “He’ll belong to me. The page brawls like a savage. I intend to show him how a gentleman duels.”
Hob bowed. “I must confess that duel
s are fought differently here. Where I come from, one’s sister isn’t permitted to take part. Is that a common tactic, milord, or your own stroke of genius?”
Dante flushed scarlet and shot an anxious glance at his father. He was on the verge of a furious retort when a hand came to rest lightly on Hob’s shoulder.
“Her Highness is expecting you.”
Hob had never been so happy to see Sigga. The Grislander did not bother greeting the Hydes as she led Hob away from their table.
“You’re late,” she muttered.
“Sorry. I was busy being threatened.”
Sigga cocked an eyebrow. “Great Houses don’t often waste their venom on junior servants. Are you sure you’re just a page, Mr. Smythe?”
“If I’m not, I’m underpaid.”
The assassin smiled and peeled off to have a word with Agent Kruger, Violet’s bodyguard. Hob continued to Her Highness’s table and stood alongside Olo and the other family servants. Hazel turned.
“Mr. Smythe, so happy you could join us.”
Hob bowed. “Good evening, Your Highness. Dàme Rascha, I’m pleased to see you’re feeling better.”
The vye nodded her thanks.
“Rascha’s on the mend but now Isabel’s banged up,” said Hazel. “Fell off her horse this morning.”
Indeed, Hob spied Hazel’s sister leaning on a pair of red crutches as she spoke with the archmage. He hadn’t noticed from across the room, for the crutches matched her gown.
As for Hazel, she wore a dress of rose gold that shimmered like fish scales. Her white hair was up, arranged beneath a pearlescent tiara with the Faeregine harp in gold. The emeralds on her necklace could have purchased a barony.
Isabel hobbled over and whispered something in Hazel’s ear that brought a look of dismay. Setting Merlin on the table, Hazel leaned back for a better view of Violet.
Her Impyrial Highness was still talking with the archmage. There was no denying Violet’s beauty, but it was remote, like a sculpture in cold marble. At the moment, however, she looked surprisingly anxious as the archmage directed her attention to an enormous crystal sphere that hovered high above. Gazing up at it, she gave an infinitesimal shake of her head. The archmage noddedand led her to the empress’s dais.
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